sometimes
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Sometimes we need to be alone, and sometimes we need someone there for us.


**Fandom: **House, MD  
**Title: **Sometimes  
**Rating: **T  
**Summary:** Sometimes we need to be alone, and sometimes we need someone there for us.  
**Disclaimer:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron are not mine, seeing as they belong to David Shore or Fox or someone else like that with a lot more power, influence, and money than me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am simply borrowing them for a little while.

* * *

_A/N- A rather ambiguous one-shot offering._

**_Sometimes_**

It was the old hospitals, in her experience, that had them. Sure, the newer ones had them too, they had to have some way to move the things people weren't supposed to see, but they crackled with life and death, current moving along a conduit. The old ones held nothing, spoke of nothing, and were just empty expanses of their experiences. The hospitals built upon them, brought down, resurrected and expanded, left them forgotten. Each and every one, different- faded paint, missing tiles, cracked concrete- and all very much the same. She finally slowed, selecting a spot and sinking to the floor, solid wall against her back. The cold seeped into her, making her shiver, but she didn't care. She'd come here to think, and alternately not think, and she'd learned long ago that these forgotten subterranean tunnels were the most conducive to that. Her pager was upstairs in her office and cell phones didn't work down here. So she sat, arms wrapped around knees drawn up to her chest, head bowed eyes open.

It had been a long time since she could think with her eyes closed. The sight of her scrubs, once clean now soiled, filled her vision, and time lost meaning. She weighed choices and consequences and tried to achieve balance. Alternately she blamed herself or someone else, plagued herself with 'if only' and wondered what she had done right. Or wrong, when those thoughts came. She held no one accountable save herself, but that wasn't much of a comfort.

At some point, when she had lifted her eyes, she had head footfalls somewhere off in the dim. She stared at the crack in the wall, rolled her eyes upward to follow it to the curved ceiling, and stared in the direction common knowledge said heaven was in. If she were a Catholic she would have placed herself in Purgatory. Steps of shadows came and went far from where she was, and eventually her gaze dropped back down again. Accompanied with a sigh, she tried to remember how to grieve again.

She was in the backyard, in that patch of poppies by the back fence, her father patting down the soil he'd just turned, then taking the little bunch of dandelions she'd picked, placing them on the rich dark dirt. She'd been so solemn, and somehow, silently, he gave her permission to cry. And she had, sitting with him in the poppies, crying over a child's first grave.

She hadn't cried, hadn't allowed herself to grieve when she'd come back that summer. There were tears, yes, but not the release he had always been the one to give permission to. There'd been more tears over the years, usually shed alone, in private, often in dank tunnels such as this. But she had never grieved, or cried, or been released. The tears were there now, dark on blue fabric unable to take away the stains of the same salinity. Sometimes, only sometimes, did she wonder if she had done enough.

How he found her she never found out. She'd almost levered herself up and left when she heard his distinctive step in the tunnel, first the wrong way, then back towards her. She pulled her knees in as tight as she could, resting her head on her arms, watching his approach. If anyone else had found her, she would have left. If anyone else had found her she wouldn't care if they saw the tears. Something inside her ached, and she didn't want him to see her when she was weak. He came anyway, finally stopping beside her so she was looking at his legs.

It was awkward for her when he sat, lowering himself to be at her level, she wondered how much that effort had just cost him. Eyes darting up to peek at him as he tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closed as he took long deep breaths. She didn't blink when he slid himself closer to her, she didn't resist as his hand went along her back, long fingers wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her to him. The ache was different somehow, and she unfolded, letting her head rest against his chest. She closed her eyes, listened to the steady rhythm of his heart, and breathed with him. Inhaling, something broke inside. He smelled like eucalyptus oil and peppermint.

He stroked her hair as she sobbed, silent with short gasps of air interrupting her. He pulled her closer, let her cling to him, let her grieve. For herself, for the people she couldn't save, maybe, even for him. She hadn't been able to do so in so long, but he was giving her permission. Eventually, she began to breathe with him again, slow and deep, pressed against him as if he were the only thing left in the world.

At some point she had sat up again, brushing her hair back from her face. She sat again, cross-legged and tired. She did and didn't notice when he left. Eventually, she left too, feeling a little less empty inside.

.-.-.-.

Cuddy found House in the lobby, jacket on and his backpack slung over his shoulders. 'House!' She called out, saw the pause in his step, and headed to him, heels clicking on the tile. 'Where are you going?'

House looked down at her, face closed and eyes tired. 'Home.' He didn't give her a chance to say anything, starting again for the door. Cuddy watched him go, standing for a long time until Wilson appeared beside her.

'He found her down in the old tunnels.' Wilson informed her, looking as exhausted as House. The day had been rough on all of them.

Cuddy nodded. 'I sent her home an hour ago.'

'We should go, too.'

.-.-.-.

He didn't know she stood out front for ten minutes, still on the sidewalk, looking at his windows and making her decision. In some ways, it would have been easier on both of them if she'd simply gone home; in other ways, it would have been that much harder. He took another drink from the tumbler of single-malt scotch that sat atop the piano, using it to fuzz the edges of the day. Patiently, he played, long fingers languid on the keys, drawing forth an old Johnny Mercer tune. She liked that kind of thing, and he wasn't surprised when he found himself in the middle of the song. The apartment was dark and silent, save for the lamp by the piano and the song. He moved with the music, eyes half-closed, trying not to think too much.

He looked up, stopped moving when he heard the key in the lock. Fingers moving, he watched in the half-light the knob turning, the door opening. She stood there, silhouetted by the hall light behind her. The notes slowed, and he looked at her as she finally stepped inside, reaching back with one hand to push the door closed behind her. She was dark as his eyes readjusted, and he realized he had stopped playing. She shed her coat and purse, leaving them on the floor by the door, and crossed the room. He made room for her on the piano bench, noticing that she had changed since he saw her last leaving the hospital. Jeans and a tee shirt, gone were the scrubs he'd found her in.

He plays again as she slides onto the bench beside him, their legs touching, his arm brushing her as he reaches for notes on the other side of her. He is patient as she listens, and he watches her as she lifts the tumbler of scotch, nose wrinkling as she finishes it. The Vicodin and scotch work their magic on him, and soon he feels looser, as his fingers slide from note to note. He stops at some point, and they sit in the silence. He reaches for the light, extinguishing it, and slowly gets to his feet.

He leads her to his bedroom, through the dark hallway, and they undress in silence. He tugs on a new tee shirt and a pair of flannel pants, looking back at her as she sits on the edge of the bed, pulling off her socks. He can feel her gaze as he retreats to the bathroom, closing the door. He appears again, and she is in a bra and panties, hair around her shoulders. Together they pull down the covers on his bed, and she slips in first. She lay on her back, looking up at him, eyes wet again. He eased into bed beside her, settling on his left side and letting her curl up against him. The covers were drawn over them and he wrapped his arms around her again, burying his face in her hair. She was soft and clean, and he felt her warmth radiating into him.

He matched her breathing, falling into the steady rhythm, until he felt his throat tighten. She took his hand and held it, and he let himself cry, breathing through her hair. She smelled of gardens and summer and grief. He clung to her, and she held onto him, returning the favor from earlier in the day, knowing how hard it could be. She'd given him permission, and sometimes, that was all he'd ever needed.

.-.-.-.


End file.
